by Brown,Dick
“You look really great, Cass. How would you like to go for a ride in Jack’s fancy new car? He said we could have it for the evening.”
“You kids go have some fun. Two-a-days start soon,” Jack said with a grin.
The Lincoln Continental rolled slowly out the driveway from the parking lot and then stopped. Rod frowned when he turned to Cass. “I feel like we are a couple of criminals, sneaking out of prison. We can’t go into town. Everybody knows I don’t have a driver’s license. If we are seen at the Dairy Queen in this car, the cops will be on us before we can even order.”
“Calm down,” Cass said, running her hand over his fresh buzz cut. “I have a better idea. Turn the car around. Turn off the lights and go down the back road to the golf course. The moon is bright enough to see the way and we can park next to the water stand by the ninth green where it’s nice and private.”
Rod pulled the car as close to the water stand as he could and switched off the engine. He pushed a button that lowered all the windows of the big four-door sedan. Another button reclined the seats as far as they would go. The third button opened the sunroof on the big car. They relaxed back and silently gazed up at the hot, star-filled Texas sky. His hand slid across the seat and joined hers, interlocking her slender manicured fingers with his puffy, callused fingers. “Tell me about Paris. Is it as neat as everybody says it is?”
“I don’t want to talk about Paris. This is our senior year and we have to make it our best year together,” Cass said.
“Together! I haven’t seen you all summer and your grandfather has a stroke if I get within ten feet of you. So how do you figure we are going to be together?”
“Don’t worry, leave him to me. He’ll let me date anyone I choose. Trust me when I say he respects your football talent.” She smiled, staring deeply into his eyes. “And I respect your other talents, so I am sure we can come to an understanding,” she said in a sensuous voice.
Rod relaxed, leaned over, and softly kissed her left cheek, then her forehead, and moved slowly down her right temple. Cass turned her head slightly to meet him head on with her parted lips. It was a soft meeting. Rod’s tongue slipped through the opening. Heavy breathing and heaving bodies crushed against each other, heating up the soft leather of the almost prone seats.
Breaking the kiss, Cass said, “It’s hot in this car. I’m suffocating. Let’s get some fresh air.” Reluctantly, Rod followed her out of the passenger side and onto the ninth green. Cass insisted they remove their shoes and let the grass caress their feet. Cisco’s greens were like thick carpet, and he would have a fit if he knew they were trampling it.
“What’s wrong?” Rod asked.
“Nothing, why?”
“It’s the first time I’ve seen you since school let out. I thought we were going pretty good in there and all of a sudden you wanted to get out of the car. Did you meet somebody this summer? Or maybe I don’t measure up anymore after you were around those French guys getting their rocks off pinching all the pretty girls on the ass.”
“Rod, I didn’t come here to fight. I missed you terribly this summer and I want to make it up to you. It was just too hot and cramped in the car. Let’s sit down here on the green so we can enjoy the breeze and soft grass.”
“Cisco would croak if he knew we were sitting on one of his precious greens,” Rod said, chuckling.
They sat side by side in silence for a few seconds. Rod sighed and turned to her, taking her face in his hands and looking deeply into her wide, blue eyes. “I’m not mad, I’ve just missed you so damn much.”
Without another word, he leaned in to her and softly kissed her, barely touching her lips at first, then harder as she responded, kissing him back. She parted her lips for his tongue. Rod took that as an invitation to go further and gently laid her back on the soft grass. His free hand stroked her breast through her tube top, slowly working it down to her waist almost as if waiting for her to tell him to stop. The only sound he heard was her low moaning and rapid breathing in response to his caresses of her bare breasts. Her body began to move. She raised her hips, allowing him to slip her shorts and panties off. Her moaning became more intense as her body slowly undulated while he ripped off his Bermuda shorts to free his throbbing erection.
He continued smothering her with kisses, working his way down her neck and shoulders. Her body shuddered when he smoothly moved to her breasts. He straddled her, holding her outstretched arms against the soft grass as he teased her stiffening nipples with his tongue, switching from one breast to the other. She arched her back, heaving her breasts against his lips. He touched her between the legs. She was wet. He inserted a finger. She clasped his hand with her legs. She writhed, holding his head, and spread her legs. Then he withdrew his finger and rubbed his erection between her legs.
“Do you want this?” he asked, unsure.
“Yes,” she breathed. Slowly, he entered her as she shrieked, “Yes, yes.” He moved slowly at first, then faster as she responded.
Finally, he was thrusting into her petite body full force, until her voice was a mere whimper and they lay exhausted in each other’s arms. Moments passed without a word.
Cass put her mouth next to his ear and whispered, “That’s how much I missed you. I dreamed almost every night about you and what we could have been doing all summer.”
Chapter 14
Two-a-days begin.
“It’s already hot because you pissants took all morning drawing your gear,” Coach Haskins drawled as sweat poured down his brow. The tobacco-chewing, overweight coach paced in front of his newly integrated team gathered at midfield. He wasn’t usually much for speeches, but this wasn’t the usual beginning for the veteran coach of twenty years at Bois D’Arc High School.
“We ain’t going to be here long, but we need to get some things straight. Most of you are going to be playing together for the first time this year and we have some new coaches. Most of you know Coach Gilmore here from Booker T. He’s my new assistant and anything he tells you to do, you damn well better do it. Hear that, Freddy Joe? He coached winners at Booker T. and he won’t take nothin’ but a hundred percent effort. Is that clear?”
A long brown stream of tobacco juice from Coach Haskins splattered on Freddy Joe Clyde’s shoe to emphasize that the coach expected no problems from his big fullback, a bigoted troublemaker.
“I don’t know what your mommas and daddies told you at home, but we are not, I repeat, not, going to have any problems because of some decision a bunch of old farts in Washington, D.C. made. Is that clear? This is a team with only two goals in mind; win our district, number one, and win the state championship, number two. We’ve got the hosses to do it and I won’t accept anythin’ less. Do you understand? Now, gimme ten good laps around the track and be back here at seven o’clock sharp, ready to butt heads and work your asses off.”
Period of adjustment
The two weeks of two-a-days ran smoothly with only a couple of minor flare-ups between Freddy Joe Clyde and Diron Little, a mammoth right tackle and Junior’s best black friend. Rod and Junior quickly emerged as team leaders. They were the catalyst that bonded the first racially integrated team in Bois D’Arc history into a smoothly working unit, on the field at least.
The City Council seemed to be trying to make the change as painless as possible. The landmark sign read: WELCOME TO BOIS D’ARC — THE BLACKEST LAND AND THE WHITEST PEOPLE had been a source of irritation to the black community for years. It had hung at the main entrance south of town as long as anyone could remember. The original intent referred to the rich black gumbo soil farmed by settlers who immigrated from the devastated South after the Civil War. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) called for its removal on a regular basis. But a recent photo of the sign in Life Magazine inflamed the already restless civil rights movement that was sweep
ing the nation. The time had come. The landmark sign had to go. And it did. It was taken down before school started.
New beginning
“Hey, man.” Junior caught Rod as he entered the Bois D’Arc High School hallway the first day of integration. “You and Cass are the talk of the school, and the whole town, for that matter. Has old man Worthington gone senile or something? I mean he had a fit every time you got near her last year.”
“Nah, he’s got something up his sleeve. Cass says she told him she was going to date me this year whether he liked it or not. Said he just shook his head and never said a word. He’s a cagey old bird and gets whatever he wants. I’m just not sure what he wants from me yet. Probably trying to obligate me to SMU by letting me date Cass, just like Jack said.
“Jack says every year a bunch of the Bois D’Arc SMU alumni get together and put up a thousand dollars each to see who can recruit the number one Blue Chip pick in the Dallas Herald. The winner gets his money back, but the rest is put into a fund to defray expenses and help the recruit adjust to his new campus and super-star status.”
“Is that legal?” Junior asked.
“Probably not, but Jack told me they’ve been doing it for years. They contribute so much money to the school, the Board of Regents just looks the other way. It’s no big deal. Everybody in the conference does it. Some guys joke about having to take a pay cut in the pro draft if you don’t get picked in the first couple of rounds.”
“Man, I sure hope to get in on some of that, and I don’t plan on taking no pay cut either,” Junior said before he ducked into history class.
“See you at practice, money bags,” Rod called after him, then barely made it to English class before the late bell rang.
The final test
For the most part, the Friday night religion of Texas high school football had overcome the apprehension of the new integration order. The mantra was No True Texan Would Let Integration Get in the Way of Friday Night Football. Extra bleachers were added to accommodate the anticipated larger crowd. A bright coat of silver paint made all the superstructure glisten under the bright lights. A fresh coat of forest-green for the bleacher seats and a refurbished concession stand put the finishing touches on the new beginning.
When the long-awaited season opener finally came, a deafening roar greeted the newly branded Armadillos in their new black and gold uniforms. They charged onto the field and pranced to the sidelines of the home team stands—clearly, but not intentionally, divided with the black fans on one end and whites on the other end of the stadium. A rousing rendition of the national anthem was performed by the Glee Club, which revved up an audience of eighty-five hundred fans.
“Boys,” Coach Haskins began in the center of the team huddle, “you are playing together for the first time, but you have worked hard for this night. Concentrate, make good decisions, and play smart football. Now let’s pray to the Almighty. God grant these young men a safe game and victory tonight. Amen.”
“We’re number one, we’re number one,” chanted the team as they broke from the huddle and the kickoff receiving team trotted onto the field. The Bois D’Arc co-captains, Rod and Junior, had won the toss and chose to receive.
“It’s an end-over-end kick coming down to the waiting arms of Junior Jefferson on the ten-yard line,” barked Sid Larson, the announcer of Bois D’Arc High School football games for the last twenty-five years. “Junior’s picking up blockers breaking toward the sideline at the thirty.” His voice raised an octave. “He breaks into the clear at the fifty. Nobody can catch him now,” he shouted into the microphone, “and he has a three-man escort to the Smithgrove end zone for a touchdown! Man, what a kickoff return. Looks like the Armadillos are rarin’ to go tonight.”
The Armadillos’ onslaught of Rod’s passing and Junior’s receiving never relented, and the big Bois D’Arc defense completely shut down the Smithgrove Tigers’ offense. Delirious Bois D’Arc fans gave the Armadillos a standing ovation at the final whistle and poured down onto the field to personally congratulate their warriors for the forty-seven to zero destruction of Smithgrove.
“Hey, Junior,” Rod yelled, trying to make himself heard over the deafening victory celebration in the overcrowded, steamy locker room. He gave up and made his way toward Junior’s locker. A six-feet-four, two-hundred-fifty-pound black body in the person of right tackle Diron Little blocked his path.
“Well if it ain’t Mr. Quarterback? Ain’t you in the wrong huddle? Game’s over now, you can go back up there with your lily-white friends. This end of the locker room is ours.”
The locker-room noise died down as Rod was surrounded by the black members of the team whose lockers were all together at the south end of the locker room. “What’s your problem, Diron? I just want to talk to Junior. You played a hell of a game, giving me time to throw to Junior. You all played a hell of a game.”
“What’s up, man?” Junior stepped between the two players.
“I was just telling Diron what a good game he played.” Rod strained to sound calm and cordial to the big tackle he had known for years playing pick-up games in the Flats. “You too, man, you really burned them good. I just wanted to see if you and Lawanda wanted to meet me and Cass at the Sizzle Burger. She’s waiting for me outside. What do you say?”
“Tonight’s kind of special, know what I’m saying?” Junior mumbled through his sweaty jersey as he pulled it over his head. “Big win calls for a big celebration with my boys, know what I mean?” Junior gestured toward the group of players behind him. “Me and the boys got some celebratin’ to do. Maybe we’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah, later. Good game, man.” Rod’s voice trailed off as he walked away. He hated it when Junior performed for the benefit of his black friends in public. He knew Junior would rather have taken Lawanda to meet him and Cass at the Sizzle Burger. That’s just the way it had always been, and integration wasn’t going to change that any time soon. Even with all the show of togetherness by the town, the last thing Bois D’Arc wanted to see was a black couple and a white couple together on a date. Playing football together was one thing, but mixed dating was something the town wasn’t ready to accept.
Chapter 15
Dream season
Three months later, Bois D’Arc had plowed through their ten-game schedule unbeaten and was crowned District IV champion for the first time in the school’s history. The new shotgun offense had been more effective than Coach Haskins ever dreamed. But by the end of the season, opposing teams stacked their defenses to slow down the Bois D’Arc air attack. Bois D’Arc played all the way to the state semifinals, edged Park Haven thirty-four to twenty-eight in a hard-fought game, and advanced to the state championship game against Tindale. The championship contest matched the only two unbeaten teams left in the state.
Tindale lived up to its name, The Thundering Buffaloes. For most of four quarters, they disrupted the Armadillos’ smooth-working offense with a hard-charging line that outweighed the Armadillos by an average of twenty-five pounds a man. Rod was relentlessly pressured every down, and Junior was double-teamed in the secondary all night.
With less than two minutes in the game, the Armadillos trailed seventeen to thirteen with the ball resting on their own twelve-yard line. Rod looked to sidelines for Coach Haskins to signal the play. Instead, Butch Talbert, a tight end, came running onto the field and poked his head into the huddle. “Coach said run twenty-four, fake left, screen right,” Butch said, panting.
“Hell, they’ll be looking for a pass and a screen is too dangerous this close to our goal line. Okay, here’s what we’re going to run. Quarterback draw on two.”
“But Coach said . . .” Butch objected.
“Quarterback draw, damn it.” Rod put his hand on big Diron Little’s shoulder pad and said, “Take that tackle left and Hoskins, snap the ball on set-hut and push that tra
sh-talking nose guard to the right and drill him into the ground. Let’s do it. Break.”
The stadium fans were on their feet screaming as Rod twisted his way through the surprised Buffaloes’ defense for a first down at the thirty-eight-yard line. The clock was stopped at thirty-five seconds to move the chains. Rod called their final time out and ran to the sideline in response to Coach Haskins’s flailing arms.
“Coach, they were expecting the screen,” Rod exclaimed before he reached the sidelines.
“All right, son, you lucked out that time, but if you ever do that again, I’ll pull you out of there so fast it’ll make your head spin, you got that? Now, get back in there and run fake sweep right, forty-one pitch deep pass. Got it?” Then he gave Rod two additional pass plays if they had time.
Rod trotted back to the team huddle and dropped to one knee in the center of the cloud of steam rising from the players on the cold December night. “Okay, this is it. Only time for one more play and it’s for our first state championship, fake sweep right, forty-one pitch deep pass.” Rod turned to his fullback, the only other back in the formation. “Freddy Joe, you make damn sure they believe you’re going to run it when you get the handoff. Suck them in on you before you pitch back to me. Junior needs time to get deep. Make it work on a four count and hope they jump offside. On four, break.”
Rod barked the signals, “Hut-one, hut-two, hut-three in quick succession.” The Buffaloes weren’t buying the fast cadence and didn’t move a muscle. At hut-four, he took the direct snap and handed off to Freddy Joe moving to his right. Rod trailed behind Freddy Joe, dropping back a few yards deeper and looked for Junior as he waited for the pitch. Freddy Joe sucked in the defense as planned, but was hit as he attempted the pitch back. The ball bounced on the cold hard turf. Rod had to break his stride to pick up the ball on its second bounce. The Buffaloes’ right defensive end crashed past his blocker. Rod was forced to drop back to his own twenty-yard line with three big Buffaloes in hot pursuit. He saw Junior pulling away from the defensive back that had been dogging him all night, and he fired the pass just as he was hit. That’s the last thing he remembered. Draped with three grunting linemen, Rod found himself driven into the turf under a mountain of sweaty Buffalo beef.